By Lucy

Definitely feeling the wanderlust now. I’ve been here for 6 going on 7 weeks, and out of Canada for 2 whole months. About a month seems to be the average for me to adjust to any place.

I wish I had the ability to take a week off and travel around, cuz I feel like that would be an good way to experience the South Island. Honestly there is no place that is far enough away, that I couldn’t drive back within a day. Go down here for a week and back, up there for a week and back…

Actually, the next thing I really want to do is try the thermal pools. I was holding off doing them until I felt sore and tired enough to appreciate it. Ironically, now that I am sore and tired, I can’t because you have to wait 3 weeks before you can soak a tattoo.

I remembered that there was that cruise ship that you were supposed to be able to live on, it would take a year or something. I looked it up; three years, actually. It was 30’000 a year, which is a steal when you consider that it includes free internet, wine with dinner, and health care. 30K for your rent, food, you don’t have to worry about a gym membership or car insurance… I laughed when I first saw the ad, as I’m sure we all did, but now it’s tempting. The ultimate travel blogger’s dream; a new port every day. Constant content.

The kicker, of course, is that you need a 45K down payment, which I don’t have or I’d buy a house.

Wanderlust aside, I find there’s a strange sense of poignancy about my stay here. Unique to this sort of travel, certainly. I will definitely miss Simonetta when I leave, Gary and Ethan to a lesser extent. Actually, the odd moments where Ethan is kind reminds me that he is just a kid, and somewhat sheltered, and hasn’t seen enough of the world to have anything life changing happen.

To a larger degree, however, the lodge is a place I can never revisit. At best, it will be carried on by another caretaker and I could pay a lot to stay here for nostalgia, in the lodge instead of in my little cabin, but it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no Simo, Gary and Ethan, or Regan painting the boards, or getting up in the morning to feed the chickens. No Luigi and Earl to greet me at the door.

There is a chance, however small, that this place might cease to exist after I leave. They might end up selling to someone who doesn’t want to operate the lodge as such, or who doesn’t have an appreciation for the history steeped in the walls and radically changes it.

It’s that virus, empathy.

It’s rare for me to consider a place home. There’s a certain spice, right? To consider a place something of warmth and safety, as opposed to simply a place to lay your head. Or perhaps, you view something with affection and fond memories, but it still doesn’t reach that level. I have no complaints about Bob’s, the place I lived before Thunder Bay, but I would never say I considered it a home. I wouldn’t consider any of the three apartments I lived in with my ex to be homes either, at least not now. There are too many painful memories.

Simonetta really sells it. She approaches everything with a kindness and a patience despite her saying, like me, that patience is a virtue she does not possess. It’s an empathic patience, an understanding that yelling at people does not yield better results and usually results in worse results than not saying anything at all. She is a wealth of knowledge, stories, experience and good cheer.

I couldn’t image her separate from this place, and vice versa.

This is where people suggest I might be autistic, because I cannot tell if we have a connection or if she is simply this nice to everyone who lets her. I think I am correct to say we do, but then how deep?

One thing that has always been a source of anxiety for me is maintaining connections after the original circumstances have changed. Like keeping track of high school friends once you’re no longer forced to attend class, or friends from work when one of you moves on. One of the knives that cuts me deep is people who promise to keep in touch, and don’t. If you aren’t interested in maintaining a friendship outside of a specific circumstance, then don’t pretend you will.

On Monday I did nothing, although I didn’t sleep in. It’s annoying when you have to get up early and feel tired, and then you get a day to sleep in and feel wide awake. I sat in my cabin talking to people on Discord until lunchtime, which I snagged from the main house and brought back to my cabin. It was gloriously warm and sunny – 21 degrees! I’d be tempted to open the windows and doors, except no one in New Zealand believes in bug screens.

Simo gave me some of her premium homemade rhubarb marmalade, which was delicious and zesty. I always love rhubarb and I hate the standard strawberry-rhubarb pie. Sometimes I’ll even eat rhubarb straight, like a stalk of celery. I wonder if she’d let me have the recipe…

I grabbed a book in Italian from Simo’s extensive collection. It’s just some coffee table-type book about Veneto, but when you have to look up every other word in the Italian-English dictionary, it draws out the reading process. I noticed in the “office” there is a large selection of cookbooks and books about food, including one about Keto, which I want to read at some point.

Tuesday I was awoken by a shotgun being fired from the front door, again. Then, as I was eating breakfast and enjoying my second tea, the sound of a jackhammer.

I stuck my head out the door. It was Regan. “I see you found the chisel bit for the Hilti.”

My cabin used to be a garage, which has gone unmentioned thus far. I noticed it in the old pictures of this place. What he was chiseling out was the old cement driveway that went into the car port, which is now my kitchen counter.

“Oh, hey Lucy.” He grinned. “I told Gary, we’d see Lucy soon! He wants this all replaced with shingle.”

I shook my head. Why now? On any other day I’d be outside working ’til at least 2 and he wouldn’t be disturbing me.

Whatever. Simo had asked me to do the chickens the night before, so I finished my breakfast quickly and went out to sort the chickens. Apparently the big, strong Czech boys are scared of tiny, winged raptors. After the eggs were washed and away, I cleaned the kitchen and put the dishes away and wiped down the counter.

Simonetta came down in a flurry. The real estate agent had called and woken her up. The pictures were in, the video tour was done, yada yada. She grabbed a carton of eggs and handed them to me.

“You’re going to Darfield, can you drop these off?” She scrawled an address on a sticky note and stuck it to the top.

Sure. Better than listening to Regan and Ethan chisel out my kitchen.

Yes, I had to go to Darfield. Turns out there was another piece of paperwork I had to do with regards to ownership of my bike, and I had to go in person with my passport. So I dropped off the eggs at the address on the sticky note, filled up the bike with gas, and went to the post office to fill out the one-sided form. The clerk expressed no surprise about my Canadian passport, and the form was filled out quickly and I was given a little piece of paper confirming my ownership of the bike.

Monday was the nice day for a drive – it had cooled off and gotten windy today. But I was still too tired to really want to go for a ride anyway. When I got back the guys were working on the wooden siding across the back of my cabin, which was also noisy.

I went into the house to grab lunch and Simonetta showed me the draft video tour, which made me laugh because the song the photographer chose for the background, plus the long, slow pans around the wood-paneled rooms, make it seem like an advertisement for the next American Horror Story. We kept talking for a bit and when I got back to my cabin the guys were done. I had lunch, curled up in bed and slept for an hour.

Wednesday I was being left to mind the house by myself again, but there were no turnovers and no guests checking in, so it was pretty chill. The Czech boys were off, back to Christchurch for the next leg of their journey, and Simonetta was dropping them off. I cleaned and reset their cabin – they ate literally everything! This next woofer was just a German man, by himself, so I just made the one bed.

Then I froze. Was Simonetta really holding up an entire cabin for one woofer? I texted her to ask.

“Unless you want him in your cabin with you.” Was the cheeky reply.

Hah hah.

I painted the front fence and garden. So much painting and gardening! It was warm and sunny – soon I won’t need a fire, although I still make a small one. It’s that weird in-between time when it’s too hot for a fire but too cold to go without. There was leftover cheesy mashed potatoes from the night before and I made some saveloys to go with them.

The white car pulled into the driveway around 6. I walked out to meet them, but Simo was alone. “I dropped him off at the cabin.”

She always has groceries that need to be unpacked, so I helped her unload the car. Before I turned to leave, she said “I have something for you. Just you!”

It was a bottle of salad dressing. Actually, three. A bottle of ranch, a bottle of thousand island, and a bottle of avocado-garlic dressing.

“Ethan will be pleased, too.” I pointed out.

She also handed me a small tub of disposable screen cleaner wipes. The other day, I’d asked for some. She told me she cleans her screens – even the touch screen! – with regular window cleaner! My heart stopped! Then I asked what she uses for her glasses – eyeglass cleaner is usually safe for screen. Dishwashing liquid, she uses for her eyeglasses!

I guess it stuck with her that it’s rare for me to look so horrified.

I didn’t meet our new member until dinner. He was tan, with a flop of dark hair, short and lean. His German accent was almost completely gone behind his new Aussie one – he’d just spent 10 months in Australia.

My heart stopped, then started again with a painful twist. He was handsome. And I couldn’t think of the last time I’d found someone besides the Vagabond handsome.

I had a hard time sleeping that night. Part of it is my own personal philosophy that you should get over your ex before you start to look for anyone else, and in this case, I have a lot to unpack.

But of course, it wasn’t even that. It was just the unfamiliarity of the sensation coming back.

The next day, Simo left us to our own devices. I wasn’t sure what to expect – she had paired the two Czech boys with each other, almost exclusively, which kinda sucked cuz I like working as a team. I took Jan out to teach him the chickens first, although it seemed almost not worth it. He grew up with chickens and spent the last several months on a cattle ranch. He aught to be teaching me and Simo, frankly.

As we entered the middle pen, he asked, “What do you do with dead chickens?”

My head whipped around. A chicken had just died in the middle of the pen, overnight. The other chickens – or maybe a possum – had plucked most of its feathers.

“Um… I don’t know!” I said, my voice upbeat in my confusion. “None of them have died yet!”

He grabbed the dead chicken by its feet and put it outside the pen.

Simonetta was right, he is quite chatty. But he’s also very smart and very learned, and it was a welcome change from people asking me about myself all the freakin’ time.

She assigned us to put some gravel around the vegetable gardens, although we immediately got sidetracked by cleaning. Probably most woofers would have just poured the gravel out, used the rake to flatten it, and called it good. But we cleaned up the broken sticks, dead leaves and empty buckets lying around. The path had clearly been edged with large rocks that had since sunk and gotten half-buried, so we dug them up and replaced them. We found some parsley growing wild and dug it up and put it in a pot cuz Simo loves parsley.

I enjoyed it. He agreed with me; any job worth doing is worth doing well, and he wasn’t gonna just tap out after his mandatory 5 hours were done. It was nice to find someone with my work ethic, after weeks of being told “it’s good enough, leave it”.

Turns out, he’s 37. He worked in factories for ten years, said “I’m done!” and started travelling and never stopped.

I like it. It’s always nice to be reminded that I wasn’t “too late” to start!

He asked how old I am. Everyone’s been guessing 23 around here. Part of that is the age-limiting factor of the visa – basically every country except Canada is limited to 30, for reasons. The curl back in my hair also makes me look younger. He seemed a little more interested when he found out I was closer in age to him.

I’ve noticed he has heterochromia. His left eye is deep brown, but his right eye is hazel. It’s very subtle – mostly you’d think it was a trick of the light.

When we went to grab some more gravel, I showed him some mushrooms I found, and we talked about how to tell if mushrooms are edible. He said these ones are (which Kevin said first, thanks Kevin!) so when it rains and there’s another sprout, we’ll harvest them!

As we got back to the garden for the last little bit, Gary called to us. “Get in the truck!”

We piled in the truck.

He took us to go get the roll of carpet for the unfinished room from someone’s garage. It was covered in rat droppings, and when we got it back to the house and unrolled it there was a paper-thin rat inside! Yuck.

After work, I showed him around the house and the garden, and he mentioned that he had found elderflower on the property.

Really? Gosh, I love elderflower and elderberries. Ikea sells an elderflower cordial that I always buy 4 bottles of whenever I drive past one, and I usually drink an entire one on the first day! I actually bought an elder to plant when I bought a house… obviously that has become slightly waylaid.

He showed me where the plants were, then we went back to his cabin. He’d already picked a couple sprigs of lavender and stood them in a glass of water to freshen up his cabin, and gave me some of the elder flower water he’d made.

He was also told he’d be working on the house in Akaroa, which bothers me. Me and the Czech boys… sure, Simonetta had decided to sell the house just before I got there, so it makes sense that there was an abrupt change in plans. But she definitely had time to tell Jan that he likely wouldn’t be out to the build, so that’s not right.

“Hmmm…” It was odd to drink water with fresh flowers in it, but I was so happy. Usually it’s just me and Simo having fun.

“Um..” He pointed out the window. A brown streak was running through the field towards the sheep.

“Earl!” I screamed, before spinning on my heel and wrenching the door open.

It was a stark reminder that she is still a herding dog. I’d taken her down to the cabin before and she’d never lost it like this, but I suppose it only takes one time.

I sprinted to the gate, fast as I’d ever run, my mind spinning with images of the rancher shooting her dead before we could get her under control. Jan followed, vaulting over the fence – I’d hesitate to do so in case it was electrified.

“Earl!” I screamed again, so loud my throat hurt.

She was beyond listening. She was practically foaming at the mouth, laser-focused on the sheep.

She quickly herded the sheep into a tight corner. Jan commented that her form was pretty good.

One sheep broke away and that was our chance. I tried to tackle her a few times, but she’s such a slender dog she disappeared beneath my hands. I wondered if she might be so far gone she’d hurt us for interfering.

The sheep sheltered behind me and Earl dropped her head low, panting heavily, drool rolling off her tongue. Jan chased her back and forth as she tried to get past me to the sheep.

It fell into place in a second; the sheep panicked and ran past me. Jan sprung into action as Earl lunged, and he successfully tackled her. Holding her with one hand, he tied the sleeve of his sweater around her collar with the other. She tried to struggle out of his grip and he threw her on the ground and knelt on her.

“Have you seen this before in a sheep dog?” I asked, jogging up to him.

“No, you can tell from the look in her eyes. She’s gone. She’s not seeing us, she’s just seeing the sheep.”

He stroked her head and spoke soothingly to her until the light came back to her eyes. We walked her back to the gate, using his sweater as an impromptu leash.

It wasn’t until she was chained up that both of us started breathing again. That could have ended so much worse than it did, but it was still frightening. I’m glad he spent so much time around cattle and cattle dogs to know what to do, because I would have been lost beyond trying to haul her back to the gate with just my bare hands on her collar.

Friday Gary hauled us out of bed at the crack of dawn. He seems to think that I like to sleep in, or something, but we all know I’m usually awake at 6. There’s just no point in being up before Simonetta. We didn’t do anything exciting; washed the windows again, weeding again.

I started smelling smoke around noon, which I didn’t register at first cuz wood stove. Then I realized it was getting hazy and started to panic. I ran around and discovered it was a farmer up the way burning trash!

Luigi went to the vet. Turns out he’s got arthritis, hence the limping. He gets pills every day for a month, and if they work they’ll switch to a monthly shot.

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I read an article today about the “rise” in parental estrangement. There’s a lot of discussion about if it’s actually a rise or if it just seems like there is one because people talk about it more. Which is a valid and interesting discussion to be had.

I’m annoyed that despite said rise, people do still question if my decision to do so is valid. Which is just as insulting as when people might imply your intimate partner isn’t abusive because they “only” hit you. I think people want the reassurance that they were “good” parents and it couldn’t happen to them.

One of the simplest and enduring images of the abuse was the basement. Throughout our childhoods, me and my brother shared game consoles and they were located in the basement. Nintendo 64, Gamecube, Wii… we took turns, measured by an egg timer.

That changed when the Playstation 3 came out. I can’t remember when my brother got it – I think it was Christmas ’08 or ’09 – but it marked the first time a console had been bought specifically for one of us, and not the other. I was barred from using the PS3. I didn’t get a new video game console until I bought myself an Xbox when I was 17.

It wasn’t just that my parents bought my brother something expensive and not me. There was a very clear line when you came downstairs. My brother’s area was on the right; he got the old couch when my parents bought a new one, an average-sized flat screen TV for the time, and a decent sized table to place it on and store his games.

On the left side was my set-up, which wasn’t even mine cuz I explicitly still had to share the Wii. I had a chair, a small side table, and a small cathode-ray tube.

So you’d have my brother and 3 of his friends on the couch, making a lot of noise, eating chips and playing whatever the latest game was, and me on the left. Curled up in my lonely chair, playing the same games I’d had for a decade because no one was making games for the Wii anymore, and honestly trying not to make any noise. Because if the boys decided they wanted a turn on the Wii, I had to relinquish it and then go do something else because I didn’t get turns on the PS3.

I ran into one of my brother’s friends at the post office job I had last year. He was nice to talk to and it was kind of fun to catch up. Then he asked me about some game that they’d had on the PS3 and I went quiet for a minute while I struggled for what to say.

Finally I said, “Dan, you do know I wasn’t allowed to use the Playstation, right?”

His turn to go quiet. Eventually he said, “Yeah, that never sat right with me.”

People ask me if I still talk to my brother and I don’t. But there wasn’t an epic fallout or anything. I could text him today; he’s say what’s up, I’d say I’m visiting New Zealand, he’d reply that’s cool and that would be the end of the conversation. There’s no interest in what I’m thinking, feeling or doing, but no real animosity either.

The last time I talked to him was shortly before the pandemic. His birthday is in February, so I took him out for dinner.

I wonder if he struggles with guilt sometimes. My mother’s favoritism of him certainly worked in his favour, but you can imagine a slow turn in a small child. What at first seems awesome as you get more stuff has to be justified to yourself, as you get older and have to start questioning why things are different. Eventually you are left with a dichotomy, right? Either accept you got stuff to the detriment of someone else, or dig deeper into the comforting lie that they “deserved it”.

I dunno, I guess my brother chose the second option.